


Voicemail

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, a shit fucking tonne of swearing, techphobic!strade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to call Lestrade, but gets his voicemail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voicemail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geniusbee!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=geniusbee%21).



Sherlock hastily tossed his phone at John. “Call Lestrade,” he ordered brusquely. The ex-army medic struggled not to drop it as Sherlock blitzed past him to the bedroom. “Tell him to meet us at Kings Cross in fifteen minutes.” 

By that point, John knew better than to argue. There was crime afoot! He snatched up his coat as he scrolled through the contacts. He found ‘G Lestrade’ -- “It says bloody G, and you didn’t know-- oh, nevermind.” -- and hit the call button. As the phone rang, he forced his arms into his jacket and hurried to the stairs. 

Lestrade’s voicemail kicked in just as he stepped into the hall. 

“-trade, Scotland Yard. Leave your name and contact information, and I will get back to you as soon as I can.” John waited patiently for the beep -- but it never came. Instead, Greg’s voice picked up again -- the message wasn’t over.

“Fuck me, is this still on? Shit. Sally! Where is the fucking button to stop this.” John snorted. “SALLY. Jesus Christ, bloody fucking tech. Can’t even put fucking buttons on a phone. What is the god damn point of it.” 

John had to stop and clutch the railing as he tried to stifle his laughter. 

“SERGEANT DONOVAN. MY OFFICE. NOW. Oh, look. The fucking screen’s gone black. Bloody charmpion. I hope you’ve died, you stupid tw-- I mean, honestly! How hard would it have been to put legible bloody buttons on you! They can write the Lord’s Prayer on a grain of bloody rice now! I saw it in the paper. Jesus Chr--” 

The phone beeped loudly, signally John to leave his message -- but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He’d slumped down on the top step, doubled over with at laughter at the poor DI’s disastrous attempt to record a greeting for his voicemail. Even after two minutes, he couldn’t find the words -- he couldn’t breathe long enough to leave a coherent message, so he just hung up. 

Sherlock appeared behind him seconds later, whipped the phone out of John’s outstretched hand and hauled him out into the night. 

Back at his flat, Greg finally dug his phone out of the bottomless pit that was his couch and flopped back down beside Sally, who was not-so-subtly stealing some of his dumplings. It was a struggle, but after a few minutes and a bit of screen-mashing, he managed to open up his voicemail. As he listened to the message -- confused, but patient -- he leaned back and shoved his smelly sock in Sally’s face -- “you gross bastard!” -- until she caved, picked up her stolen wontons, and crawled away from the couch. 

Two full minutes later, Greg hung up the phone. 

“Who was it?” Sally asked, devouring her food in safety by the kitchen door. 

“John Watson,” Greg answered, putting the phone on the coffee table and picking up the remains of his scavenged take-out. “Drunk dial, I think.”


End file.
